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“Where am I supposed to get that?”
“Any decent-size auto shop. Once it’s done, you pour the sludge into a river and it’s as though the body never even existed.”
“I don’t have time for all this. Any way you could get out here to Boston and handle it for me?”
“Can you doanythingon your own?”
Evan stared down at Norris’s body. He lay on his back, the trench coat beneath him flapped open like the wings of a moth. The circular bloodstain at his midsection looked like a cannonball entry wound.
“Apparently not,” he said.
“I see how it is. I’m here for cleaning and housekeeping while you’re out running around at all hours having fun and killing people.”
“I did ask you to rescue me from the clutches of the federal government.”
“Fine,” she said. “Text me the address.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“How do I get a bloodstain out of white carpet? I tried dishwashing detergent.”
“You’re a liberated man,” she said. “Figure it out.”
39
Long Island MacArthur Airport, a regional facility in the comedically named town of Islip, was near the base of the tail of Long Island, forty-five minutes east of Luke Devine’s estate.
Evan sunned himself, leaning against the borrowed Hertz rental he’d slotted in the middle of outdoor long-term parking. But he wasn’t merely sunning himself.
He was shopping for a new residence. Between Luke Devine’s reach and the Secret Service’s intensified interest in him, he could risk neither a hotel nor a bed-and-breakfast.
A promising minivan pulled into the lot, coasting along and parking two rows over. Empty bike rack, a custom decal sticker showing a stick family of five. The 3-D version unpacked themselves from the car, the wife blond and fair, the husband dark-skinned, likely Indian, the children an unreasonably beautiful blend of both.
Preparing for his fourth exploratory approach of the afternoon,Evan ambled past them as they unpacked a fleet of suitcases from the rear. As the parents dealt with the larger luggage, the middle child, who looked to be around six years old, fumbled with two hard-shelled suitcases, decorated with action heroes, and a diminutive set of golf clubs.
She unsheathed a driver and waved it around like a swashbuckler, her toddler brother laughing and clapping his hands. The other clubs tumbled out onto the asphalt, and as she crouched to gather them, the suitcase slid away toward Evan. “Runaway droid!” she cried.
The family alerted all at once, a herd of startled deer.
Evan caught the runaway suitcase by its handle, his thumb snared in the luggage tag. Glancing down, he checked the city on the address before rolling it back.
“Sorry!” the mom called.
“Thank you!” the father said.
The girl laughed a joyful laugh and slung her second suitcase toward Evan.
“Asha!” the mother shouted.
Evan blocked it with his shin.
As mother and father reprimanded Asha, the oldest sibling, a string-bean around Peter’s age, hoisted the youngest atop his midsize suitcase behind their backs. He launched passenger and conveyance at Evan, crying, “Runaway Padawan!”
Straddling the rolling suitcase bearing down on Evan, the toddler giggled, air rippling his dark hair.
The parents were screaming.
